


Nesting

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: Embroidering the Truth [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A Different Adult, Actually Sex Ed Not Anything Skeevy, Elrond and Elros Need An Adult, Emotional Abuse, Gen, Gross Maedhros, Gross Porridge Eating, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Let's Us Run Symbols Into The Ground And Drink Deep, MaeGROSS haha, Maglor Abuses the Metaphor, Maglor Unironically References the Cuckoo Bird, Maglor and Maedhros Are Codependent Mutually Despicable Murdergulls, Maglor and Maedhros Are Unfriends, Mentions of Maedhros/Fingon - Freeform, Not A Cute Foster Family, Pornographic Embroidery (you heard me), Possibly Anachronistic Card Catalogues, Referenced violence, Sex Education, Unless You Consider Cliches About Bees Skeevy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 19:38:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8114923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: As Maglor contemplates the reproductive education of his young wards, Elrond and Elros stumble upon an ancient craft project that renders Maglor’s planned sex ed class redundant.





	

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. In embroidery, 'bird nesting' is a collection of thread between the fabric being sewn and the needle plate that generally causes thread breaks and sewing problems. Bird nesting can be caused by improper thread tension, an improperly threaded machine, a poorly installed bobbin case, excessive flagging, or poor digitizing.
> 
> PM us for our extended list of embroidery terms that can be made sexual/tragic, i.e. all of them.

In the fortress of the kinslayers, years passed.

The faithful and their followers who still lived in the outbuildings noted with some relief that the screaming grew less frequent and that the Lord Maglor appeared with scratches down his face less often. The young twins, when they were seen, had grown a little taller, and some of the more curious and less polite liked to crane to see if the shape of their ears was visible beneath their heavy dark hair. Those with better manners, or those who preferred to not look at the spawn of the witch woman and her pirate, rebuked the curious. And one, a refugee from Gondolin, said that Eärendil’s ears had always looked normal as a child anyway, and the mark of Man was unlikely to be seen until the boys were of age.

In the fortress of the kinslayers, Maglor marked the passage of time carefully in a ledger marked ‘Milestones!’, while Elros scratched lines for each day endured into the stone wall behind his bed.

In the fortress of the kinslayers, Maglor marked the boys’ height against the wall with a piece of chalk, using Elrond as a proxy for both since Elros was prone to bite. The chalk marks soon flickered up the doorframe like a flock of distant seabirds, and the lines etched behind the bed marched in sturdy ranks that quavered only when Elros’s hand did.

 

* * *

  

“I think the boys are getting old enough to be given the birds and the bees talk,” said Maglor one morning over the breakfast table. The table was a vast scrubbed piece of driftwood, salvaged from the coast. Maglor preferred to sit at the head of it, opposite – and more than an arm’s reach from – his brother.

Maedhros was halfway through a bowl of porridge. “ ‘The birds and the bees’?”

“It’s a metaphor for the discussion of the functional requirements of reproduction.” Maglor looked pleased to have been asked. “These particular fauna are excellent representatives of the process, see – pollination and the blooming of flowers, egg laying and nest tending – so I thought the symbolism was elegant. It serves far better than that speech Father gave us that was mostly about how cranes mate for life and how much _better_ their offspring are for it, and which more or less bypassed the functional aspects of procreation.” When pressed for details about how cranes actually created their well-adjusted, two-parent offspring, Fëanor had broken off mid-speech, looked at his sons in some surprise, and said ‘The male puts his cock inside the female, of course.’ Even then, Maglor had winced at the lack of poetry. “Anyway, I think our boys deserve better.”

“What boys?”

Maglor sighed and tapped his fingers on the table. “The twins.”

Maedhros took another mouthful of porridge, slurping loud enough to make Maglor wince, and appeared to think, as if rifling through a catalogue of twins until he figured out whom Maglor meant.

Maglor glowered at him.

Maedhros chewed unnecessarily and swallowed, some porridge trickling down his chin. “They know how to read, don’t they?”

“What? Of course they do.” Maglor was stung; he had made sure the Peredhil received an excellent – well, sufficient – education. “But if you are suggesting I have them read for edification, say, those blue letters Fingon used to send you and that you keep in that drawer…” He gave a genteel shudder.

Maedhros’s eyes didn’t flicker. “I was going to suggest that if the brats can in fact read,” he said, setting down the bowl and wiping his mouth with the back of his leather clad prosthesis, “just slap a copy of the Laws and Customs down between them.”

Maglor scoffed. “Because that worked so well when Grandfather tried it with us.”

Maedhros shrugged his uneven shoulders and got to his feet. “Does it matter? Do you really think they’ll live long enough to procreate?”

“Of course they will!” said Maglor indignantly.

Maedhros looked disbelieving. “And you expect me to believe you will allow them to breed?”

Maglor pursed his lips and didn’t answer.

Maedhros wiped porridge from his gloves onto his trousers and reached for his cloak. “It’s unlikely they’ll find mates among our people,” he said. “Unless they feel like mating with each other, I say the whole point is moot.”

Maglor ignored him. “I think,” he said, “I shall compose a little something. A elegantly rendered song, explaining the conjoining of souls and the union of bodies, perhaps with a floral metaphor and a bird of some sort – ”

But Maedhros had already left.

Maglor didn’t care. “ _The cuckoo is a pretty bird_ ,” he sang softly to himself. “ _She sings as she flies; she brings us glad tidings, and she tells us no lies_...”

 

* * *

 

Elrond folded his hands in front of him while Elros shuffled his feet and they both waited for Maglor to notice they were there. He had summoned them to his solarium and then left them standing by his desk while he scribbled, not acknowledging them.

After twenty minutes, Elrond coughed politely.

“Slave-making ants,” said Maglor, jerking upright and overturning a volume called _Arthropoda erotica_. He let it drop to the floor and slammed shut another entitled _Reproductive Habits Of The Lesser Animal Kingdom_. “No, I am drilling too far into the weeds, better to keep the focus broad.”

“What’s a mouth-breeding parasite?” asked Elrond, reading a page upside down.

“Don’t ask questions,” said Maglor. “Now, your instructions. You are to bring fresh linens for your beds and tidy your quarters for the week. Bring your dirty smallclothes to the laundry, scrub your hands and clean under the nails, and then stay out of my way, I need to work on this.” He had been occupied with something for two days now, and while music often made him more snappish and unpredictable than usual, it also made him more absent.

Elros suspected that Maedhros enjoyed this side effect as much as the twins did.

They waited for further instructions, but Maglor was already turning back to his harp. He waved an absent finger in their direction. “What did I say?”

“Change the sheets and make our beds, wash our clothes and scrub our hands,” chorused the twins in the way that Maedhros called macabre but made Maglor beam with pride.

“Yes. And then, my darlings, do not bother me.”

Elrond nodded obediently, as if they ever sought to bother Maglor, and Elros yawned.

He trailed his brother to their room and then to the laundry, their arms full of bedding and clothes. From there they made their way to the linen cabinet, which they ransacked for sheets but which turned out to be short on pillowcases. As they dragged the rest of their fresh bedding down the corridor, they argued over where to look for spares.

“Laerwen might have some in the old servants’ quarters.”

“We’re not supposed to go down there.” The servants’ quarters were off-limits, despite the precious few servants actually left in the old fortress. A few devoted guards served as valets to Maedhros and Maglor, and there were some servants who kept the kitchen and prepared the food, but few would approach the wards of Maglor without leave, and Maglor preferred it this way. Instead, Elrond and Elros did most of their own chores with careful instruction from their guardian. It would, he told them, build character. Elrond had once asked, with genuine curiosity, why then did Maglor not wash his own clothes and make his own bed, but Maglor had not given a satisfactory response.

This was not unusual.

Elros threw his quilt and bundle of sheets on the floor and then flopped down on top of them. “If we can’t get them from the servants then what do you propose we do, cleverchops?”

Elrond prodded him with a toe. “Get off those, you’ll make them dirty again.” He thought a moment as Elros grumbled and rolled to his feet, draping the bedding around himself like a cloak. “I’m trying to think where I saw some lying around…” They were passing Maedhros’s room, and Elrond’s eyes flickered to the open door.

Elros followed his gaze and read his intent at once. “He’ll eat you alive if he finds you in there,” he said, with some relish.

“He didn’t eat you when he found you under his bed with the hammer,” Elrond pointed out.

“No, but he took the hammer away.” He had also cheerfully told Elros that if he found him there again he’d break both his wrists – but that he was free to make murder attempts anywhere else in the fortress.

“I don’t have a hammer to take. I’m going in.” Elrond was always resolute when given a task. “Look, I see some linens in the corner, he never uses all his sheets anyway.”

“I don’t think he even uses his bed.” Elros hung back by the door, restrained by the memory of Maedhros’s teeth glinting beneath his twisted lips as he described the sound of bones breaking. “I think he curls up on that mess of tapestries in the corner.”

“That’s for his… dog,” said Elrond, but he looked uncertain. Maedhros was not known for being fond of animals. “Anyway, hush, I’m just going to grab these and go.” He darted past Maedhros’s possibly unused bed and wavered a moment as a rank smell hit him from the corner. He grabbed a handful of linens from the mound, then darted back to where Elros was hovering in the door. “Go go go!”

“Thought you wasn’t scared, Prince Perfect,” taunted Elros, but he was already running.

When they got back to their own room, Elrond slammed the door behind them and exhaled a breath of relief that he disguised as a judicious throat clearing. Smoothing down the front of his tunic, he shook out the pillowcases while Elros began hauling bedding over his mattress.

Elrond let out a sudden sigh. “Oh _no_.”

“What?” Elros gave up on the fitted sheet and hurried over. “Bloodstains?”

“No, but these are clearly for decorative or throw pillows, not bed pillows. They’re too small.”

“Oh.” Elros thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Who cares? We can just go without.”

“Yes, but Maglor will notice, and if we’re not going to use them we should probably return these to…” Elrond’s voice trailed off. “Elros. Look at this.”

Elros hooked his chin over his brother’s shoulder and together they stared at the scraps of fabric. They were ancient, worn and stained, but covered with delicate embroidery done in an unmistakably fine hand. Embroidery of tiny, active figures.

“What do you think they are,” Elrond began, but Elros was already pointing.

“They’re Elves.”

“They’ve not wearing any clothes,” said Elrond in shocked tones. “Who do you think they are supposed to be?”

Elros sniggered and bent closer over the embroidery, his hair flopping into Elrond’s face. Elrond blew at it impatiently, tucking his own neat braids behind his ear.

“That one has gold in his hair,” he said, pointing to the dark-haired figure, who was far more prominently positioned. “Do you – do you think it’s King Fingon?”

Elros scrutinized. “What’s he doing to the Elf under him? Killing it?”

“Erm. Wrestling him? Or her? I can’t tell.”

“Was King Fingon a wrestler,” Elros started to say, and then a look of dawning comprehension crossed his face. “Elrond.”

“Maybe some other kind of game. Hop frog?”

“Elrond. Do you remember that time…”

“Seems undignified for a king, but Fa – Maglor always talks about ‘the mad court of Fingon’ so maybe – ”

“Remember that time we went to hide in the broom closet because Maedhros was in one of his moods and we found Laerwen and the stable boy?”

“They weren’t wrestling.”

“No.” Elros smirked. “They were having sex.”

“So? What does that have to do with – ” Elrond’s eyes fell on the embroidery again. The faded, embroidered buttocks of the king winked cheerily. Elrond went pale. “ _No_.”

Elros held his nose with exaggerated theatricality as he peered closely for a second and then retreated. “I don’t see. You know. Breasts.”

“It’s not like Laerwen’s were that visible either,” said Elrond, but Elros had a point. The figure enjoying itself beneath the straining thighs of the king did not appear obviously female. “Maybe they are wrestling after all? I think I need to do some reading.”

Elros snickered and went back to tugging sheets straight. He looked up when it became clear Elrond was still absorbed in their discovery. “What are you so preoccupied with?”

Elrond didn’t answer. He was running a fingernail against the faded hair of the king's partner, an arrested look on his face. Elros batted his hand away from the fabric, as if touching it might get something on his hands. 

"Who do you think it is, then?" Elrond said slowly.

"Who cares?"

Elrond's finger hovered over the hair again. "What color would you call this?"

"Dried blood," said Elros, who was familiar enough with it. "Why?"

"If it was red," said Elrond, "if it was red, who would this look like?"

“You mean – ” Elros caught what he was implying and squinted at the tiny figures. "No. That Elf's too pretty."

But Elrond was thinking. He was remembering an afternoon spent hiding from Maglor, crawling around under the great eaves in one of the little-used towers. He was remembering a portrait found there, first in a stack of seven; a portrait of a young, beautiful Elf with waist-length red hair and the sculpted features of an aristocrat.

The only part of the portrait that had made it hard to identify the subject, apart from its clear age, was the way the eyes had been gouged out – as if something had been hooked through the canvas and then pulled savagely free.

“But Elros, what if it _was_ him?”

 

* * *

  

There were cards, faded and yellowing, strewn across the library floor.

The library was traditionally limited to accounts written by the commissioned historians, but there were some non-offensive classics as well, and a few non-fiction pieces viewed as too boring or rote to be dangerous. Their contents were carefully indexed on the cards kept in the neat mahogany drawers beneath the library's single, star-embossed tapestry. 

Elrond was determined to find _something_ useful in them.

At first he had endeavored to keep the catalogue neat as they poked through the aged cards covered in spidery writing, but as they got more desperate for time, the pieces of stiff paper flew from their hands.

“Look up wrestling positions.”

“Is there an entry for naked wrestling positions?”

“Look up wrestling for procreation.”

“Wrestling for…copulation.”

“Non-procreative copulation.”

“This is a dead-end, I don’t see any of those.”

“Look up King Fingon’s wife.”

“No wife. Known paramours?”

“Female paramours. …Male paramours?”

“This is ridiculous,” muttered Elros, looking nervously over his shoulder. “Why do you care, anyway?”

“I just think it would be interesting to know,” said Elrond, scribbling down another book title on the scroll drooping over the edge of the desk next to him. He slotted the card carefully back into place and flipped to another.

Elros crouched down and began gathering the discarded cards, trying to put them back into order as he continued to shoot glances towards the library door.

“That’s the best we’re going to do, I think,” said Elrond, at last, scratching a line on his list with a decisive flourish and Elros heaved a sigh of relief. Elrond stood up and scanned the bookshelves. “Is there a footstool or something around?”

“Hurry!” hissed Elros several minutes later, holding the ladder while Elrond teetered on top of it. “She’ll be back any minute.” The twins weren’t actively guarded, but it was known that wherever they ended up in the fortress, guards would make a point of patrolling slightly more actively.

“Hang on,” said Elrond, rummaging on a higher shelf. “I want one more.”

There were footsteps down the hall, the guardswoman returning on her rounds. Elros made another urgent sound but Elrond was already climbing down, books tucked under his arm, his foot landing solidly on his brother’s shoulder instead of the rung. Elros, too anxious to complain, grabbed his brother around the waist with unusual strength and heaved him down to the floor. “Hurry!”

Back in their room, they spread the books out on the floor and started flipping through the indices.

Hours passed.

“I can’t find anything useful,” said Elros, throwing himself back on the ground with a sigh and rubbing at his eyes. Elrond was still hunched over _Athletic Pursuits of the Noldor._ _Laws and Customs of the Eldar_ had been discarded as useless and was under the bed. “I can’t even remember what we were looking for.”

“We’re trying to figure out why someone would have images of the High King… cavorting with another Elf. And who that is. And why. And how.”

“You ask too many questions.”

“You sound like Maglor,” said Elrond, not taking his eyes from _The Noble Noldo_ , and Elros looked so offended that words failed him for the next hour.

“Elros,” said Elrond, quite a while later. Elros started up from where he’d been napping on the floor. “I really think the other Elf is Maedhros.” He closed his book as Elros sat up and shook a spider out of his hair. “I think… I think you were right about what they were doing.” Elrond had a strange expression on his face. “I think Maedhros must cherish those images.”

“You do?”

“I think perhaps he loved the King,” said Elrond, his voice oddly quiet. “I think perhaps the King loved him.”

“Who would love Maedhros? Foul.” Elros looked at the naked, supine figures knotted into the cloth. “Let’s burn them.” He scrambled to his feet and clutched the scraps in his hands.

Elrond got to his feet more slowly, looking wary. “Why?”

“Because if what you’re suggesting is true, it will upset him. Is the fire still going?” Elros wandered over to the soot clogged grate, but it was cold. “No. Do you have any matches?” He rifled through the scraps of cloth. “The other option would be saving them to burn in front of him. Hmm. I think that might be better.”

“I think,” said Elrond, “that he might kill us.”

“Maglor wouldn’t let him.”

“Maglor might not be able to stop him,” said Elrond, thinking of the gaunt figure with his terrifying strength and the heavy sword, longer than they were tall, that he wore at his waist. “Why do you want to provoke him so badly?”

Elros turned a disbelieving look on his brother and forbore to answer. “What would you do with them?”

“Put them back,” said Elrond at once. “Pretend we never found them.”

“Pretend,” said a low, musical voice, and both boys jumped back, Elros’s hands instantly flying behind his back, “pretend what, my dears?”

 

* * *

 

Elrond thought they would be scolded and then confined to their room. Elros thought they would be beaten.

Neither happened.

Instead, Maglor knelt on the floor before them and worked the scraps of cloth from Elros’s frozen fingers. “What have we here?”

Elros shook his head dumbly, but Elrond said, “We found them by accident in the linen cupboard, Father.” Elros made a small sound, but Elrond kept looking at Maglor with clear, guileless eyes. “We only just realized they wouldn’t work with our own pillows and were going to put them back – ”

“Back?” Maglor’s voice was lilting and curious as he examined the embroidery. “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary.”

Elrond shut his mouth.

Maglor rose to his feet, and Elros automatically put out a hand, clutching Elrond’s fingers tightly. Elrond squeezed his hand and rocked forward on his toes, a slight movement that allowed Elros to retreat behind him. Elros was fearless when it came to provoking Maedhros, but Maglor could terrify him.

Elrond, however, looked up into his face.

Maglor didn’t register his stare, instead running his fingers over the embroidery. “Dear me,” he said. “I am afraid you may have gotten some confusing messages from this imagery, hm?”

“Not _so_ confusing,” said Elrond honestly.

“Poor things,” said Maglor, his voice vibrating with tender concern. “I had hoped your education in these matters could be positively directed. Hopefully it’s not too late.” He beckoned with an elegant hand, and tucked the embroidery into his pocket in the same gesture. “Come to the solarium.”

“Oh no,” whispered Elros, almost too quietly for Elrond to hear. “He’s going to _sing_.”

They tried to shrink into the shadows, but Maglor’s gentle hand was like steel on Elrond’s shoulder, and Maglor’s gentle tone brooked no resistance.

 

* * *

  

Down in the training yard, the sound of Maglor’s pure, impeccable voice drifted down. A couple of the soldiers stilled their swords mid-swing, even after long years of exposure still mesmerized by their lord’s song.

Maedhros, however, reached into his pocket for two plugs of beeswax, and screwed them into his ears.

 

* * *

 

Some time later, the twins wandered from the room in a haze, the notes of Maglor’s song still fading on the air, Maglor’s pleased smile following them down the corridor like an unwanted bat. They were quiet until they were almost back to their room, and then Elros found his voice again.

“What,” he said, “was _that_ about?”

“I don’t know.” Elrond was blinking a lot. “The chalices were an odd addition, given the lengthy bit about the cuckoo. I mean, birds don’t use goblets for one, and for two, I feel like you shouldn’t stab a chalice with a dagger, it would blunt the blade.”

Elros poked his finger against a divot in the wall. “And the swelling rosebuds?”

“Uhm.” Elrond chewed his cuticles. “I have a thought on that, but I’d rather not say it. It was the part about the mushrooms that confused me most. _The pale turgid nightcaps pop up each morn, but natural their coming– ”_

“That one I got,” said Elros. He gestured illustratively downward. “You know how sometimes, of a morning, you wake up and things are spr – ”

“Oh no,” said Elrond, agonized.

They agreed it was best not to contemplate much more.

They returned to their room, shut the door and dragged the bureau in front of it, and crawled into bed. As the moon rose, Elros rolled out of his bed and thumped to the floor before climbing in to lie beside Elrond. He curled onto his side and watched his brother in the silver light of the night sky.

Elrond’s eyes were still open.

“What are you thinking about?” whispered Elros.

“I liked the line about the star-fingered toad,” said Elrond softly. He lifted his hand before his face and studied its silhouette against the ceiling.

“Yes.” That had lingered with Elros as well. “The part where its children eat their way out of its back…”

“I just like the name,” said Elrond, turning his hand this way and that, shadowed against the light of Eärendil.

Elros didn’t respond to this, but closed his eyes and settled down on the pillow next to Elrond. Elrond lay awake long into the night, wondering if he was imagining the sound of Maglor’s voice singing about cuckoos again, and if the scent of smoke was memory or real.

 

* * *

 

Maglor strode across the hall, his boots clicking.

Maedhros kept his feet wrapped in salt-stained leather that made for silent, heavy footfalls, but Maglor’s boots, lifted in the back and with pointed toes, had steel heels that sang against the flagstones as he walked. Maedhros was sitting by a smoky fire, his feet up on the table, and Maglor crossed the flagstones to toss some scraps of fabric down in front of him. Maedhros spared them a glance as he poured a glass of wine from the clotted bottle in front of him but didn’t otherwise react.

Maglor folded his arms. “I found the children with these. Any thoughts as to what they are?”

“Look like rags to me,” said Maedhros, and picked up the bottle to drink from it.

Maglor paused in his disapproval long enough to make a pained expression. “I have asked you not to do that.”

“No fear, it’s not like I’m getting my filth on anything anyone else will touch. Look, I set aside a glass for you and everything.” Wine dribbled from the corner of Maedhros’s mouth as he pointed, and Maglor looked weary even as he pulled out a chair beside his.

“I prefer your other vices to this one.” Maglor took a needle from his pocket and spun it musingly, nudging the scraps of cloth closer to Maedhros, who continued to ignore them. Maglor took the glass of wine and made a show of wiping the rim before taking a sip. “Ugh. The grapes you chose for this vintage must have been off.”

“Don’t blame the grapes, blame the additives.” Maedhros grinned around the neck of the bottle as Maglor set his glass back down, his mouth red from the wine.

Maglor wiped his lips delicately with one of the selected scraps, and then smoothed it down in front of him, long fingers tracing over the faded needlework figures, now smeared with scarlet. “You got his eyes right,” Maglor said, tucking the needle between the knuckle of his first and second finger and studying the embroidery. “And the lines of his back. But if I remember correctly, there was a small mole… there.”

Maedhros didn’t answer.

“As for the other, that is quite a fair face you have given this prince of the Noldor. Engaging in a bit of revisionist history, were you?” He waited, but still Maedhros didn’t answer. “I can’t imagine Fingon liked that much. He did make such a point of nobly tolerating your ugliness.” Maglor tapped the needle, still pinched between two knuckles, against the fabric. “But I see this has been reworked. Perhaps you accommodated his desires for _realism_ and then, when you got it back, restored your face to what you wish it was. I wonder, do you fantasize more to the memory of his thighs or to the thoughts of your wasted beauty?” As he spoke, Maglor took a knife from the table and began to unpick the threads of the figure’s face. Then he pulled a long black hair from his own head, threaded the needle, and began to sew with tiny, expert stitches.

By the time he was done, Maedhros had finished the bottle and was watching the far wall with grim, bloodshot eyes. Maglor stood, and tossed the fabric towards him. “There, I have restored you to your true self.”

Where once there was a skillfully rendered and handsome visage, now there was a dark ruination with gaping black holes for eyes.

“To match your portrait,” said Maglor gently, and when he bent forward to kiss Maedhros’s forehead, Maedhros flinched. Maglor kept his lips pressed to his brother’s brow for just a second longer than necessary, and then straightened up.

“Despite their exposure to deviant needlework of the dead, I think I have managed to salvage the twins’ education. They will have a strong grasp of the _true_ ways of love and copulation after listening to my song – or at least, I’ll see what they say in their analytical essays. I’m sure they’ll appreciate it in time. Oh, and Maedhros – ” Maglor smiled, and took the empty wine bottle in one hand. “Once you are done enjoying my improvements to the embroidery – burn them.”

And he left.


End file.
